


A Wicked Twist

by Maeerin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Blood, Fluff, Graphic descriptions, M/M, One Shot, Post-His Last Vow, a bit of hurt/comfort, but warning there is blood, i'm not sure what else to tag it, mention of miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeerin/pseuds/Maeerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When one of them is targeted in the middle of the street, the other keeps going to find the person responsible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wicked Twist

**Author's Note:**

> I was daydreaming this and then I got inspired to write it out. It's just a quick one-shot, full of angst and a bit of fluff. Enjoy :)

The door of 221B opened softly. It remained that way for longer than usual, but then it was shut, and footsteps lagging slightly unevenly made their way up the stairs. Opening the door to the flat, John appeared, with an overnight bag in hand.

Sherlock looked up from his armchair and met John’s heavy gaze. The man was tired—exhausted—though not just from their extensive run after a criminal they had the night before. He was still red in the face, his fists clenched tightly even after he set his bag down. He exhaled deeply and stiffly headed towards the kitchen.

“I moved out.” John said without looking at the detective. Sherlock waited a full ten seconds before responding.

“She didn’t take it well.” He stated.

John didn’t respond right away. He prepared his tea and then headed towards his armchair, which had remained in its spot since Sherlock had placed it back all those months ago.

“She wasn’t surprised. I could have sworn she had sounded pleased.” John said as he sat down.

“After you two argued—.”

“Can you not do this tonight?” John interrupted, his tone sounding snappy with irritation. “We argued; we have been since…you know.” John sighed, but didn’t continue.

Mary had miscarried the baby a few months before, and though both had been devastated, it was soon revealed John hadn’t even been the father. It had been David’s, who had even felt to blame John. Out of grief, John had practically thrown him out when he had come back to see Mary. But much to Sherlock’s dismay, John had stayed with her, claiming that after losing a baby even if it turned out not to be yours, it was normal to grieve. Sherlock hadn’t asked too much about John’s reasoning with staying with Mary; it would have been a not good questioning their grief. It vaguely reminded him of their first case together, which further kept him quiet.

“You know Mary blames me.” John said, bringing Sherlock back to the present. “Says I’m a doctor, I should have seen the signs.”

“She’s a nurse.” Sherlock remarked.

“Not a pediatrics one. I probably have more knowledge than she does.” John said, looking away and focused studiously at the floor.

“It isn’t your fault John.” Sherlock reminded his blogger gently. “It happens all the time, you said that yourself.”

John didn’t respond, but looked up and offered Sherlock a small look of gratitude. Silence fell upon them for a few minutes.

“I’m going to have a shower.” John said out of the blue. “Don’t suppose you can find a case, you know, anything to…” His voice trailed off as he headed into he bathroom, and didn’t bother finishing whatever he wanted to say as he closed the door behind him.

…

“Lestrade wants us to come in, something about the case last night.” Sherlock informed John as he walked into the kitchen.

“All right. We can head out now if you want?” John suggested. _He still looked tired; perhaps they should wait?_ But John was already putting his coat on, and he offered Sherlock a light upward lift of the lips—wouldn’t be a grin or a smile—and headed out to hail a cab. Sherlock followed him without a second thought, his coat swirling out behind him.

“Let’s walk?” John offered after a second failed attempt of hailing a cab.

“I need to stop at the lab afterwards, Molly’s got some bronchitis lungs, says I could take a look.” Sherlock said distractingly. John chuckled slightly beside him as they made their way to New Scotland Yard.

Soon enough the building was in sight. Sherlock was a step ahead of John; the area was less crowded than usual, it being a Sunday morning.

A loud crack echoed in the street. Sherlock stopped in his tracks and looked ahead of him. Bystanders were looking around also, some even up to the sky. Clearly the sound came from above, but where was it directed?

Sherlock turned around; when he saw John his face paled. John’s hand was placed over his neck, covered in blood. The army doctor met Sherlock’s eyes, widening with shock. Abruptly, John’s knees buckled but Sherlock caught him just before he hit the ground.

“John? Where are you—?” Sherlock voice trailed off as he watched John remove his hand from his neck. There was a hole—a gunshot wound—bleeding profusely over John’s neck and collar.

“Sher—.”

“Quiet John, don’t speak.” Sherlock ordered. He looked around; onlookers were watching them, voices echoing with emergent tones, desperately calling for help. Sherlock looked to the entrance of New Scotland Yard; officers were rushing out, Greg Lestrade included. He immediately saw Sherlock and John and headed towards them.

“Jesus what the hell happened?” Lestrade asked as he ran towards them.

“John’s been shot.” Sherlock reported despite it being obvious. “He—he needs…”

“I’ll call an ambulance.”

John clutched at Sherlock, tugging at the detective scarf. His breathing was ragged with settle gurgling sounds.

“John stop, you need to, I need…” Sherlock’s mind went blank. _John was the doctor. He’d know what to do. But John was the one shot. What do I need to do? What needs to be done?_

Quickly, Sherlock placed his hands tightly over the wound, holding the wound closed as much as possible.

“Sher-lock…” John slurred, blood staining his teeth and out of his mouth. “Don’tleaveIneedtotellyouIamokayIneed—.”

“Don’t talk John.” Sherlock’s voice was shaking but he couldn’t help it. “I need to keep pressure on the wound. Lestrade is getting help. Help is coming.” He assured John, though it may have been to assure himself.

“Ineedtotellyou—I—okayI’mfineSher—.”

“Shut up John. Shut up.” Sherlock said fiercely. John’s blood oozed through the spaces of his fingers, drenching his gloves and sleeves. “You’ll be fine. The ambulance is coming John. Help is coming.”

John met Sherlock’s eyes and flinched. The detective’s eyes were pained, the usual blue-green spheres now hard and grey. “Sherlock…”

“John, breathe. Don’t die please don’t die…”

John nodded stiffly but opened his mouth and continued to speak. “I love you.” He breathed out steadily.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “John…”

John coughed, and blood spurted from his mouth. “IthurtsSherlockdidyouhearme? IsaiditItoldyouIloveyouSherlock…

John’s voice trailed off. He stared up at Sherlock before blinking heavily. His eyes closed once then didn’t open.

“John? John!” Sherlock shook his blogger. “Wake up. John!”

Sirens echoed behind Sherlock, and before he could awaken John, he was being pushed aside as the medics took over. With speed, his blogger was rushed into the back of the ambulance, which sped off, leaving Sherlock behind covered in John’s blood.

“I should go with him—.” Sherlock started to say.

“Donovan and other officers found where the gunman was; just across the street, up on the top balcony. They found the shell casings but no sign of him yet.” Lestrade informed him.

Sherlock blinked and cleared his throat. “I need to…show me.”

Lestrade looked up startled. “What? Shouldn’t you go to the hospital?”

“He’ll go straight into surgery. I need to find out who did this.” Sherlock said, slowly gaining stability back in his voice. “We were obviously targeted.”

“How do you know that?” Lestrade asked as he led the way to the building across the street.

“Why shoot us and not an officer outside of the police department? If someone had a grudge against Scotland Yard, they’d shoot an officer but they didn’t. They shot John, or were trying to shoot me. Either way, it’s personal.”

Lestrade led the way to the top balcony. Immediately, Sherlock scanned the area and view of Scotland Yard; it was a clear view from up there, with not cameras around.

“Did you check for any surveillance?” Sherlock asked. He had trouble keeping his voice stable, his heart rate still beating fast against his chest.

“The elevator one doesn’t show anything; there aren’t any in the stairwells.” Sally reported. “There aren’t any figure prints on the railing; we’re looking at the bullet shells now. It’s likely though he may be a professional.”

Sherlock observed the area. The air smelled musky, no doubt from the various businessmen and pollution but another scent was fresher. There was a mix with something familiar…

“Found something over here.” A voice spoke from behind him.

Sherlock turned around. Sally bagged something and handed it over. “Looks like a diamond.”

“It is. Obviously.” Sherlock stated and looked closer at the stone. “It’s from a ring, there’s residue of where it was attached to it; very likely feminine. No more than two years old. About a karat, so commonly affordable if one were to set their mind to it.”

“So, what, the shooter was a woman?” Lestrade offered skeptically.

“Possibly, though who I—.” Sherlock stopped speaking, his eyes widening. He narrowed them and without another word, turned around and headed back down to the street.

“Hang on, Sherlock!” Lestrade called after him.

An idea sparked in the detective’s brain. “Gavin—.”

“Greg.” Lestrade corrected him.

“Greg, can I trust you?”

Lestrade tilted his chin up slightly. “Of course.”

“Right, okay…” Sherlock eyed him for a moment longer. “I need you to go to Mary’s flat.”

“Okay, didn’t John move out?”

“He did last night—. Wait, how did you know already? We haven’t seen you since before it was decided?”

“John and I met up for a pint after they’re fight, before he collected an overnight back I presume. It wasn’t pretty.” Lestrade reported.

Sherlock nodded in response and continued. “You need to go to Mary and tell her what happened.”

Lestrade furrowed his brows. “All right—.”

“She needs to be informed by this, they’re still legally married. Better from you than from the telly. Just do what I ask; I’ll explain everything later.”

Lestrade slowly nodded. “All right then. Do what you need to do. I’ll let you know after I’ve spoken to her.”

Sherlock nodded back and then turned on his heel and disappeared down the stairs.

…

Sherlock walked in slowly into the hospital room. The lights were dim; the room was filled with an eerie silence interrupted every time John’s heart pulsed in his chest.

The army doctor was attached to various machines and drips; he was still intubated with a light piece of gauze placed over his neck wound. He was so utterly grey it sent a tsunami of anger down Sherlock’s spine. He wanted to lash out, but knew he had to keep himself together. The doctors said that John was very— _very_ —lucky. They planned to take the tube out of his mouth the next morning, and hopefully have him awake that night.

For now, John laid motionless on the hospital bed, the beeping noises blending in with the outside hall, meshing together of aggravating white noise in Sherlock’s mind.

Sherlock stepped closer until he reached the railing of John’s bed. Swiftly, he leaned down and pressed his forehead against John’s.

“Don’t die John.” He whispered.

A sudden ring interrupted the eeriness of the room; Sherlock pulled out his phone and read the recent text.

**I’ve told Mary. She’s pretty upset. She wants to speak to you. Do you want me to stay?**

**No you can leave. – SH**

**All right. I’ll stop by at the hospital then, to collect the doctor’s report.**

Sherlock pocketed his phone and took one long look at John. He quickly leaned down and pressed his lips onto John’s forehead before turning around and leaving the room.

…

Sherlock was exhausted, the constant worry over John blurring his mind, but he needed to keep going and find the person responsible. So he took a deep breath and knocked on Mary’s door. It opened immediately, revealing a red-eyed, blotchy faced Mary on the other side.

“Oh Sherlock…” Her voice cracked as she lunged at him and drew him into a tight hug. “I knew something terrible would happen eventually, the way you two run off chasing criminal.” She sniffed and led him inside. Sherlock eyed her carefully and followed her into the sitting room.

“Is John all right?” She demanded.

“He’s um, out of surgery, but not out of the woods just yet.” Sherlock whispered, keeping his eyes on her. He remained standing as Mary sat on the sofa.

“He’s strong, he’ll make it.” She assured him.

“What happened to your wedding ring Mary?” Sherlock asked, purposely out of the blue.

Mary looked startled. “Wh—does it matter?” She asked, her tone suddenly changing from worry to irritation.

“I can’t help but notice. John just moved out last night—.”

“I lost it. A while ago. I presume back at the hospital.” Mary said vaguely. Despite her past, this time Sherlock could tell she was telling the truth, or at least, the part that she didn’t really know what happened to it. Dead end.

Sherlock looked around the room briefly and inhaled deeply. _It’s the same scent, but stronger. Maybe I should call Lestrade…_

Sherlock looked at Mary. “Where have you been today Mary?”

Mary faced the detective. She remained silent for a moment before responding. “You honestly think I had something to do with this?”

Sherlock glared at Mary and stepped closer, his anger betraying him. “All the evidence points to you.”

“And what evidence is that? You think I would be stupid enough to leave anything behind.” She stated furiously. She stepped closer to him, as if ready to slap him.

Sherlock glared down upon her with a look of disgust. His phone rang in his pocket but he ignored it. “You should have changed your perfume. It’s very telling.” Sherlock said, his voice booming with loathing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?” Mary snapped back.

“The diamond from you’re wedding ring also points to you. It came apart somehow easily and was left behind. It may not point to you but I’m sure John would recognize the cut.”

“You’re insane.” Mary said scoffing with cold laughter.

Sherlock remained impassive. “Tell me Mary: was John the target, or was it me?”

Before Mary could respond, the door suddenly clicked opened, harshly banging against the wall as heavy footsteps entered the sitting room.

Sherlock looked behind him and gasped. Mary paled and gasped softly.

“John!” The two of them said in sync.

John, his eyes sunken and grey against his sickening skin looked back at them. He was breathing too heavily, and his whole body shook as if he was about to pass out. The gauze over his neck was surrounded by redness. He was wearing his coat and jeans over his hospital gown—his whole figure giving off a frightening look.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded as he rushed forward to his blogger. Mary followed him and they settled him down on the sofa.

“I was hoping you could tell me.” John murmured. He crumpled forward but Sherlock and Mary caught him before he hit the ground. They led him gently to the sofa and settled him down. He was already having trouble keeping his eyes opened.

“Mycroft came to the hospital. Said I wasn’t safe there; whoever shot me had apparently showed up, probably wanted to finish the job, I didn’t see him but Mycroft did—he must have gotten away—but he took me here anyway and then left I suppose. You need to call him, Sherlock. He wouldn’t tell me anything.” John sighed deeply and settled himself against the pillows. Sherlock nodded and stepped away, pulling out his phone.

His brother answered immediately.

“You know who is behind this.” Sherlock whispered before Mycroft could start.

“Yes. Lestrade found the sniper rifle discarded less than a block away. At first that seems rather foolish, but it may have been deliberate—.”

“Get to the point Mycroft.” Sherlock snapped.

“I am.” His brother said sternly. “The gun is registered, though even that is suspicious, to an Anne Garridebs—.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply; he turned around slightly and saw Mary watching over John, unaware of his reaction. “Continue.” He whispered.

“You know who I’m talking about. And I’ve kept surveillance on her since the Moriarty’s fake return. She clearly has an alibi when John was shot.”

“So it was someone else. It’s someone who has a vendetta against her. Magnussen said he knew people who wanted her dead.”

“It’s not any of them. This man made a mistake. He left a fingerprint on the bullet casing left at the scene. It appears that was his only mistake. Leaving the diamond from the ring and the gun points to Mary—.”

“The air smelled of her perfume. He must have taken something of hers—.”

The door opened against and Mary left the room to greet whoever entered. Sherlock turned farther away from them to avoid eavesdropping.

“He must be trying to frame her, but why?” Sherlock asked.

“The fingerprint matched a man: Ryan Ackles, an American computer analyst. He’s a wanted man for treason who disappeared about four years ago. He leaked files to Anne before he was caught. She helped him escape. It was suspected they stayed together, but there haven’t been anything connecting them since then. He worked dealt government information in the black market, even with Moriarty. He was never implicated because he was just freelance, never actually employed or in person.”

“Have you been able to find him?”

There was a pause. Murmured voices rose behind the detective; Sherlock turned around and caught John’s face: he was clearly in pain, but despite that his eyes held anger towards the other man. David stood by Mary, showing concern but clearly avoiding John’s glare. Mary whispered to David, their facial expressions tense and on the verge of arguing. They all stopped suddenly, a silence falling upon them. John looked up to Sherlock, and widened his eyes a bit. The others followed his gaze and looked at Sherlock, who appeared to have been staring at them with shocked eyes.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows slightly but then stopped when Mycroft’s voice spoke sternly in his ear.

“Ryan Ackles is David Wilson.”

In a flash, Sherlock dropped his phone and lunged at David, startling the others. Mary gasped and backed away. John remained in his seat, his face furrowing in confusion then quick understanding.

Sherlock pinned David to the ground and glared furiously at the man. “If John had been killed I would kill you right now. Consider yourself lucky.” He growled at the man beneath him. David paled and resisted from fighting the detective.

“He had it coming. He’s a bloody doctor. My child—.”

“Oh please. It was much more than that.” Sherlock sneered. “You didn’t even know it was yours. Only Mary knew.” Behind him Mary nodded her head once, vouching for the detective.

“You’ve been jealous of John since the start.” Sherlock continued. Sirens echoed from the distance, increasing with volume, as they got closer. “This was just a petty attempt to reclaim Mary—no, to punish her. After you betrayed the CIA, she helped you so you stayed with her, but then she ended things. After all this time and you couldn’t get over her. So you targeted John and attempted to frame her. Too bad you’re just a computer nerd.” Sherlock sneered again, loosening his grip and standing up just as government officials barged through the door.

Before they could apprehend David, Sherlock pulled back his fist and slammed into David’s jaw. The man crawled away only to be pulled up roughly by Mycroft’s men. He glared at Sherlock, then at John murderously, bloody dripping down his from his nose. “I would have gotten away with it—.”

“Don’t overestimate yourself. It makes you an even greater fool.” Sherlock shot back.

…

Police lights flashed in the street, government officials swarming all around. John was placed in a stretcher and wheeled to an ambulance. Mary was alone as Sherlock walked up to her.

“Only Mycroft knows who you are. He’s willing to let you live as you were.” Sherlock informed her impassively. “Don’t contact John and no one else has to get hurt.”

Sherlock turned on his heel but wasn’t fast enough; she caught his arm mid twirl and held him there gently. “I did love him. Both David and John. But I let sentiment get the better of me.”

Sherlock met her eyes and then continued to walk away, only to be pulled back once more.

“Sentiment isn’t the worst that can happen. It may not have worked out for me, but it could for you, especially with a man like John. Tell him.” Mary said, and then dropped her grip and walked back into her house. Sherlock remained standing there for a moment before turning around and heading towards John.

John hadn’t been placed in the ambulance yet. He was looking at Sherlock with something…odd in his eyes.

“You need to back to the hospital.” Sherlock said.

John met his eyes. “Do you remember what I said? When I—.”

“Yes.” Sherlock replied quickly and looked down.

John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. “I still mean it. I always will.”

Sherlock looked back up and nodded once. The paramedics surrounded them and placed John into the ambulance. Sherlock followed them in, and together they headed to the hospital.

…

Two weeks later

“I can’t believe David was the one. I mean he seemed so…” John looked up for a moment, thinking of the right word. “Ordinary.” He concluded softly and met Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock smirked and looked back into his microscope.

“The most ordinary can be the most surprising.” The detective said absently.

John chuckled and stood behind the detective. He leaned forward and pressed his nose into Sherlock’s hair, only to stop and lean back.

“Sorry I—.” John began to walk away, but Sherlock turned around and grabbed his wrist gently.

“No.” Sherlock said. “It’s…fine.”

John met his eyes, but remained silent, unsure of what to say. A knock interrupted them; Mrs. Hudson appeared, with a couple of men behind her holding boxes.

“These men have your things John. I suppose Mary sent them over.” She said smiling and left.

“Ah, that was nice of her.” John said as he reached for the boxes. Sherlock stood up and stopped him.

“You can’t lift anything heavy John. Your neck is still healing.” Sherlock reminded him.

John huffed. “Fine, you take them then.”

Sherlock looked at the men. “Upstairs—actually—.” He looked at John, who met his gaze. “Take them down the hall to that bedroom.” He pointed to his own, keeping his eyes on John’s face as it morphed into surprise.

“Sherlock—.”

“I love you too.” Sherlock blurted out. He left his mouth hanging open for a moment before closing it tightly. The men were in and out quickly; then the two were left alone suddenly, the silence only increasing.

John’s lips twitched with a small grin, then quickly developed into a smile. He stepped closer until he was close enough to the detective he could feel his breath against the tip of his nose.

“Mary told me to tell you. Apparently it was obvious, even to her.” Sherlock murmured.

“Not obvious to me.” John said. Sherlock’s eyes widened with a sudden fear, only for John to laugh lightly. “I mean...show me then. You know what an idiot I can be.”

John’s grin turned smug and he raised his eyebrows as if expecting something. Sherlock grinned and then leaned down and pressed his lips to John’s. The kiss started slow, but then gradually deepened with a longing to be as close as possible. Reluctantly, John pulled away, but kept close enough to feel Sherlock’s nose against his.

“Take me to your room.”

“Our room.” Sherlock corrected him and led him down the hall, closing the door behind them.


End file.
